


Some Say in Ice

by Nenalata



Series: Dragon Dances [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad Parenting, Baking Recipe Upon Request, Fluff, Injury Recovery, Interrupted Showers, M/M, Parenting Problems, Post-Divorce, Romance, School, good parenting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-04 21:51:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13373778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nenalata/pseuds/Nenalata
Summary: Adjusting to forced retirement from professional hockey hasn't been easy for Terrance Lavellan. A new job, a new injury, and a new life comes with complications enough, even if his ex-wife hadn't sent their son Kieran to live with him while she travels the world to study who-knows-what.Terrance knows hockey, not after-school dance programs. Kieran knows how to move with music, not how to relate to his father. And Dorian Pavus may know how to help.Or not.





	1. Back on the Rink

**Author's Note:**

> All right, I've had this sitting in my docs for approximately three hundred years. Time to dust it off and give it a whirl. This takes place in the Swan Song universe, but you probably don't need to read it to still enjoy!

His son was silent on the walk over to the new townhouse. It was new to him, not to Terrance; the apartment had been his for a little over four months, but Kieran hadn’t wanted to see it even over video call. Now, his son had little choice.

Terrance unlocked the door with his good hand, dropping Kieran’s bag to do so.

“Dad,” Kieran complained, gesturing to the duffel in the dirt.

“I got my arm in a sling,” Terrance replied, a little more snappishly than he meant. Kieran’s lips went tight, an expression so like his mother’s that Terrance felt guilt nibbling at the corners of his stomach. “I’m sorry, Kier. Look, the door’s open now.”

Kieran picked up his bag, again in silence, and walked inside with his shoulders back and head held high. The guilt gnawed more vigorously now—Kieran’s straight back always made Terrance think the kid was about to cry.

“Your room’s to the left,” Terrance called, and Kieran trudged obediently to the left. Silent.

He didn’t say much even on a good day, but today was certainly not one of those. Today was Kieran’s first day in a new city, and tomorrow would be a new school. Today was the day the divorce had gone through. Today was the day his mother had dropped him off at the airport with no promise of when she’d be back. And Terrance had dumped his bag at the door of his new home as if he wasn’t welcome.

* * *

 

School did not take to Kieran, or maybe Kieran didn’t take to school. He wasn’t bullied, at least according to him, but he wasn’t making friends. The other kids weren’t smart enough or interesting enough or had nothing in common with him; his teachers at Back to School Night told Terrance that Kieran had “such potential” that was “going to waste” with his solitude and unwillingness to speak up unless called on.

“Did you learn anything fun today?” Terrance asked him one night over a tense dinner. Kieran only fixed him with a cold stare. Terrance foolishly tried again. “Did anything stand out?”

“I preferred it when Mom homeschooled me,” Kieran said, and returned to staring at his broccoli. 

They chewed in uncomfortable silence, but after a few moments, Terrance tried for one final time. “What did you like best about Mom’s homeschooling?”

“I’m not a little kid, Dad,” the twelve-year-old said. 

“I’m not—” Terrance protested, but Kieran shook his head and he shut up.

“You are. It’s okay, though. It’s been a while.” Kieran stood, taking his plate with him. “I’m done.”

Terrance set his fork down and exhaled after Kieran went into the kitchen, a long sigh to dispel all his frustration. Kieran, for all his precociousness, was right. It had been a while. He and Morrigan had done their equal part of raising Kieran in the early days of their relationship, when getting married had seemed like the proper thing to do for their kid. But when Terrance had been traded to the Kirkwall Dragons and Morrigan had elected to stay in Ferelden with their son, he’d missed out on Kieran getting older, turning into more of a real person. Baby Kieran was all he remembered.

Kieran scuttled out of the kitchen and reached for Terrance’s plate to clear. “Thanks,” Terrance said, surprised. Kieran nodded, a quick jerk of his head, and slid back to the kitchen sink.

He moved with such grace, like his mom always had. Terrance, for his part, only knew how to move when he was on the ice with a stick in his hands and fifteen pounds of protective gear on his body. Kieran poked his head back into the family room. “I’m leaving the rest for you. I’m going to do my homework.”

“Thanks.” He rose and headed into the kitchen to finish doing the dishes. The heavy steaming pot was on the drying rack already. Terrance glanced over his shoulder, but Kieran was long gone. His wrist twinged, as if relieved to not have to wash such a heavy pot himself.

The guidance counselor had suggested Kieran take up community service or an after-school activity, he remembered. Maybe that wasn’t such a terrible idea after all.

* * *

 

“I want to go to this one.” Terrance made an inquisitive noise from his seat at the computer. He sensed rather than heard his son scamper up to the desk, the hairs on his arms prickling. 

One of the many pamphlets Terrance had brought home was shoved into his sight on the desk. By the time he registered the sight of the photos of kids in leotards, Kieran had already retreated to his room. “Kier,” Terrance called, standing from the office chair. Nothing. “Kieran, I’m not done talking to you.” He heard a creak, like Kieran had taken a cautious step forward. “Kieran, I’m glad to sign you up for this one. Just--just come talk to me.”

Kieran’s black head poked out of the doorway, and when he caught sight of his father’s expression, the rest of him followed suit, slinking into the hallway. “You’re not—you’re okay with it? It’s really okay?”

“Of course I am,” Terrance replied, baffled. “Why wouldn’t I?”

His son’s eyes slid away, towards the framed jersey on the wall, then flicked back to meet him. “I dunno. Thanks, Dad.” He began inching back towards his room.

“Kier, hold on a sec, okay?” Terrance fixed his gaze on Kieran with the same intensity that he had uncooperative refs; “marked by the Inquisitor,” the guys used to joke after a game.

“I was gonna do my homework.”

But of course his son would be immune.

“Kieran, you know I want you to be happy, right?”

Kieran looked like he wanted to sink into the floor, or better yet, escape to his room and lock the door, maybe banishing his father to another dimension for good measure. _Not today, kid_. “Yeah, Dad.”

“I’m gonna support you in anything, whatever you set your mind to. As long as it’s legal.” He cracked a smile, but Kieran just gave him that curious steady stare so typical of him. “You don’t have to be afraid of me—I dunno—disapproving, or not standing by you.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“If that means doing dance, then I’m a big fan.” Terrance shook the pamphlet with emphasis. “If that means doing hockey, I’m still a fan. Whatever you set your mind to—”

“I know, Dad. Thanks. Can I go do my homework now?”

Terrance nodded, a few times more than he needed to perhaps. When he heard Kieran’s desk chair creak, he settled back at his own desk and begin filling out the paperwork for the after-school dance program.

* * *

 

“So?”

“So, what?”

“You know what I mean, Kieran.”

“Oh, the dance class. Yeah, it was really fun.”

“Fun?”

“Mhm. The instructor’s really nice.”

* * *

 

Kieran certainly seemed to smile more easily now, more forthcoming in conversation. He’d even made a few friends who took part in the same program--Connor, a grade above him, seemed to be his closest ally. None yet in Kieran’s class itself, but it had only been a month since the first class of the year. There was time for that yet, and at least Terrance wasn’t getting such worrying emails from the teacher about his son’s reclusiveness anymore.

All this, it seemed, he owed to the delightful instructor, whom he’d yet to meet. Kieran couldn’t seem to shut up about him, or rather, he was more talkative when the subject of the program was brought up.

“He has fire in him, you know. Kind of wakes everyone up, like he’s waking the dead,” Kieran said with one of his small smiles.

“The dead? People don’t pay attention?”

“Some of us do. But a lot of kids don’t want to be there, I don’t think. At the end of the afternoon, everyone’s into it, though.” He paused. “For the most part.”

That made Terrance go on alert. “There a kid you don’t like? There someone you need me to talk to?”

Kieran’s eyebrows shot straight up. Terrance flinched, angry at his own anger, his protectiveness that he didn’t know he’d had, but to his surprise and great relief, his son laughed.

So it was really due to Kieran’s continuous cryptic half-answers about the program that made Terrance decide to actually attend one of the classes.

* * *

 

The instructor, as it turned out, was striking, to say the least. Terrance didn’t know the last time he’d seen such a perfectly groomed mustache, if ever, and certainly not on such a young man. He couldn’t be thirty, and, judging by the smoothness of his face, hadn’t had a kid at eighteen or gotten in fights on the ice. 

Terrance had no idea what he’d expected. Kieran focused on the self, not the looks, of the people he judged worthy of talking about. His son wouldn’t have mentioned how handsome Dorian Pavus was, wouldn’t’ve said the instructor clearly knew so. Terrance was one of a handful of watchful parents slightly sweaty from running to the athletic center studio after a day in the office, and Dorian seemed to glow under the scrutiny of so many suit-garbed audience members. He’d cast a quick look Terrance’s way—the newest attendee to impress--and then had focused all his attention on the kids.

Whatever Dorian was telling them to do, most of them seemed into it. A couple kids dragged their feet or shambled in the back of the group of fourteen, but Dorian kept an alert eye on them all. Kieran, whose eyes had slid to the door upon his father’s entrance and then darted back to Dorian, hardly needed instruction, at least in Terrance’s ignorant opinion. Dorian stretched out a long, brown arm and clicked his remote, and as soon as his “One, two, three, and—!” ended and the synths and drums picked up, Kieran slunk into liquid action. 

Some of the kids, bless their hearts, stopped moving in the first ten seconds, looked about themselves in confusion, and continued dancing with their heads turning to keep an eye on everyone else’s movements. An older redhead boy near Kieran improvised when Dorian was demonstrating correct footwork in front of a student, not looking at him. And Kieran, with fluid grace and closed eyes, sliding one way as the awkward gait of his preteen body curved into softer motions, spinning the other way like a puck across the ice…

Kieran didn’t look like Morrigan at all. Definitely not like stocky, lumbering Terrance, but also not like Morrigan, not her sharp angles and spiky dancing, not like her lightning crackling down to earth to set it ablaze. Kieran was all frost melting on a grassy slope, icy water trickling downhill. 

Terrance blinked and shook his head. He was falling asleep in this metal folding chair, thinking abstract dream-thoughts. He turned his attention back to the instructor, hoping the man could “wake the dead” as Kieran had suggested, but to his surprise, Dorian clicked off the music and began guiding the kids in stretching. Terrance glanced at his watch, tired eyes struggling to read the clock face, and by the time he’d deduced it was indeed time to go home, the instructor was striding towards him. He’d barely broken a sweat.

“I’m glad my class riveted you so,” the instructor said with a grin. 

“I’ve had a long day,” Terrance defended himself with instant heat. Dorian raised a black eyebrow. His bad wrist twitched, and he used the other hand to rub the back of his neck. “Sorry. Long day, like I said. You do good work with the kids.”

“And which ‘kid’ are you proud to be parent of?”

“Kieran,” he answered with a nod in the boy’s direction. Kieran was chatting to another student, the redheaded improviser, with more animation than he ever showed at home. 

Dorian nodded his own head approvingly. “Kieran shows real promise, Mr. Wilde,” he said.

“It’s Lavellan. I’m Terrance Lavellan. Kieran has his mother’s last name.”

“Terrance Lavellan,” Dorian mused, rubbing his chin. A bracelet flashed on his wrist, momentarily catching Terrance’s eye. “Terrance Lavellan. I’m sure I’ve heard that name somewhere.”

Terrance flicked his gaze back up to Dorian’s face and grimaced. “Formerly of the Kirkwall Dragons.” At Dorian’s blank look, he tried again. “Hockey. Professional hockey.”

Dorian snorted. “That certainly doesn’t explain why I’ve heard your name before, but I suppose sports headlines do occasionally seep into my handsome skull.” Terrance didn’t know how to respond to such a comment, but Dorian shook his head and extended a hand. “My apologies. I’m being terribly rude and haven’t properly introduced myself. Dorian Pavus.”

Terrance took the proffered hand and shook it.

“Strong handshake,” Dorian said with a wink.

“Used to gripping a stick,” a baffled Terrance replied without thinking better of it.

“I bet.”

“I’m ready, Dad,” Kieran piped up from somewhere below Terrance’s elbow.

“Right,” Terrance said, staring at Dorian, who in turn stared at Kieran.

“Dad?”

“Right,” Terrance repeated, coming to his senses. “Let’s go, Kier.”

“I can handle my bag,” Kieran complained, tugging it closer when Terrance reached for it on their way out the door. Dorian waved, a small smile on his face.

“Right.”

* * *

 

“Terrance,” Cassandra surprised him one afternoon as he was putting on his jacket to go home, “some acquaintances of mine were planning a trip to the rink later this week, and I wanted to invite you to join us.”

Terrance shrugged his coat on all the way. “I can’t play anymore,” he said with an apologetic tilt of his head even as a spike of self-hatred flashed through his gut. Cassandra shook her head.

“We’re just going ice skating. One of my acquaintances was retired after an injury of his own, and he still gets on the ice with us. I don’t mean to pressure you,” she added hastily when she saw him hesitate.

“I just need to find a sitter, depending,” he explained.

“Oh, Kieran can come too, if he’d like.”

The thought of Kieran being asked to go on such an excursion swam into Terrance’s mind. He could see the kid’s grimace, could hear his eyes roll in his head. “I’ll ask him,” he promised. “Who’s the retired player?”

“You might know him as the Iron Bull. I’ll introduce you.”

“No way,” Terrance laughed. The Iron Bull had been traded to so many teams for so many seasons that Terrance couldn’t even remember what team he’d originally played for. Bull was one of the bigger guys, intimidating on and off the ice--at least, he’d only heard about the latter being true. “Well, I’ll ask Kieran, but count me in for the time being.”

Back at home, Kieran made the same face he’d imagined, though the eyeroll had been less dramatic than anticipated. “All right, I’ll need to find a sitter,” Terrance mumbled to himself.

Kieran exploded. “I don’t need a sitter!” he objected, voice cracking in outrage. “I’m twelve years old, Dad. I’m not a little kid who needs someone to make sure I don’t fall down the stairs or play with the outlets or order pizza for me!”

Terrance, taken aback, only said, “So you don’t want me to leave you money to order pizza?”

“No!” Kieran snapped, then widened his eyes and softened his tone. “I mean, yes, please. But not so a sitter can order it for me!”

“You don’t know the city very well,” Terrance tried again, but Kieran looked on the verge of exploding again, and he changed tactics. “So, uh, just promise me you won’t go out except to tip the delivery person, okay?”

“Yeah, okay. I promise. Thanks.”

Cassandra brought the subject up again at the office the next day, setting a more concrete date for Friday evening after work. Terrance told her about Kieran’s outrage at the mere mention of a sitter and laughed, but Cassandra’s mouth was turned down in disapproval.

“You should be more disciplined with him,” she scolded. Apparently they were on good enough terms now for her to offer parenting advice. Terrance bristled even more at her next words. “From what you’ve told me of his mother, I doubt she would have let him talk to her like that.”

“No one gives you a book on parenting, Cassandra,” he defended himself with some heat. “I’m doing the best I—”

“What I mean is that he knows you’re more lenient and is taking advantage of that,” she continued as if he’d said nothing at all. “You cannot let your twelve-year-old son dictate the rules.”

Terrance rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe I should be firmer,” he admitted, “but in this case, I think he was right. Sure, he probably shouldn’t’ve freaked out at me, and I probably should’ve told him that, but I’m not used to dealing with kids his age. It’s like, he’s awkwardly between a little kid and a real person.”

Cassandra frowned. “A ‘real person?’ Maybe he should come, Terrance. Give you some opportunity to get to know your son, as a ‘real person.’”

“I told you, he didn’t want to come.”

“Cassandra,” their boss, Lucius, boomed from across the room. “I have some more paperwork that needs your careful eye.”

“I’ll see you Friday,” Terrance said more calmly at Cassandra’s raised eyebrows. “I’m looking forward to meeting your friends.”

“Acquaintances,” she corrected. “I will see you then.”

* * *

 

At the rink on Friday, when the Iron Bull introduced his teenage son Krem, Terrance wished for a moment that Kieran had even shown interest in coming. Krem was easygoing even in the company of adults, joking at his father’s expense while they waited in line to rent skates. Terrance had brought his own, but thought he owed it to Cassandra to at least mingle with her “acquaintances.”

Aside from the Iron Bull, more hulking and with broader shoulders than Terrance remembered and with an eyepatch from the nasty injury that had cost him his career, and from Krem, Cassandra also introduced him to Cullen Rutherford, and a bearded man she initially called Tom before he corrected her with a slow smile and a soft, “Blackwall, if you please.”

They were an odd company, all except for the young Krem sporting some sort of healed injury or scar, reminding Terrance that he hadn’t known too much about Cassandra before he’d gotten this finance job. He made a mental note to invite her and her acquaintances to drinks afterwards. He wondered how she knew them.

“I haven’t skated in so long,” Cullen grinned his way with a pair of rentals bundled in his arms. “I see our new friend came prepared, however.”

Terrance laughed, swinging his skates by the laces. “I’ll help you keep your balance, Cullen. Just grip onto me.”

Cullen smiled down at him. Terrance really was among giants, he couldn’t help but think--even Cassandra was taller than him. “If I fall, you’re going down with me.”

To his own embarrassment, Terrance felt heat rise to his cheeks. Fortunately, Cullen was responding to some comment Bull made and was no longer looking at him.

Adjusting the wrist brace he’d brought instead of his sling, Terrance struggled to lace up his skates on the bench. He cast a furtive eye at the company, hoping none of them saw his feeble attempts, and, satisfied, returned to his fumbling.

It felt good to get on the ice again. It felt really, really, really good to feel the blades cutting into the rink, to kick fake snow off his skates, to scrape into the ice on a hard brake. It felt good to move, to race, to get some familiar exercise. While his balance was a little off and he hurt his bad arm stopping himself on the wall when he skidded, he laughed when he fell and laughed when Cullen fell and laughed at the strangers falling and it just…

He wished his son could just understand. 

Across the rink, Krem tried to push Bull, and Terrance heard his booming laugh resonate across the echoey walls over the pop music pumped in through the speakers, and with the sound, Terrance’s gloom dissipated. Krem was seventeen, five years older than Kieran, and was obviously more grown-up at his age. Kieran would feel at ease, too, one day. He just had to give him time.

Cassandra slid to a stop near him. She, for her part, had no trouble adjusting to the ice. She followed Terrance’s line of sight, at Krem and Bull trying to lap each other, and looked about to say something.

“I’m not being fair, am I?” Terrance said, just loud enough to be heard over the music.

“Probably not,” Cassandra agreed. Terrance laughed, just once.

“You really don’t pull punches.”

“Now is not the time to spare your feelings. I have not met your son, but I believe it is a universal problem with all parents to try to make your child into something they are not.” She nodded at Bull and Krem when they whizzed past, laughing. “Bull has accepted his son for who he is, not who he expected him to be. Whatever expectations you have of Kieran, whatever understandings you would like to come to with him, release them. You will be constantly disappointed otherwise.”

“You don’t even have children, Cassandra,” Terrance, stung, couldn’t help but point out.

“No,” she admitted. “But I have parents. And I would have liked them to have received this advice.”

* * *

 

The bar on the edge of Lowton he’d suggested, The Hanged Man, seemed to make Cassandra wrinkle her nose, especially when the bartender had offered her a cheerful wave, but everyone else had a roaring good time. Bull made the excuse that it would be poor form to send Krem home alone, but Cassandra, Blackwall, and Cullen made up for their absence. It was a little late by the time Terrance made it back home, but he was surprised to see Kieran still up, the TV illuminating the empty pizza box and soda bottle.

“Did you have fun?” Kieran asked the moment his coat was in the closet. 

Terrance smiled in the closet’s direction. Blackwall, laughing at some story Cullen was whispering about a former boss of his, had slapped Terrance on the back so hard that he was fairly certain there was still beer trapped in his lungs. “Yeah,” he told his son, “yeah, they were nice people.”

Kieran nodded seriously. “I’m glad.” He turned back to the TV, where a dancing reality show was playing in quiet tones.

“Hey, isn’t it past your bedtime?” Terrance asked, half-joking.

Kieran scoffed. “It’s Friday and I don’t have a bedtime.” He gestured towards the TV. “Besides, it’s not like I’m watching something you’d disapprove of.” Still, he flicked his eyes his father’s way, as if worrying he would disapprove.

Cassandra’s pep talk bubbled, unbidden, to the surface of Terrance’s mind. He took a deep breath. “Mind if I watch with you?”

Kieran stole another look at him, then turned back to the TV with a shrug. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

Terrance relaxed onto the sofa next to him, getting comfortable. “Probably.”

“Move your knees,” Kieran complained, trying to shove Terrance’s knee away, but when Terrance only spread out more, his shoves were interrupted by his own laughter. “Sto-op!”

Once they’d agreed on a mutually comfy sitting position, Terrance tried to pay attention to the show. The judge’s comments were insipid and dull, and when the cameras went to the rehearsals pre-performance, his eyes glazed over as the dancers talked about their process. But the performances themselves had sexy costumes and admittedly cool routines, and with Kieran sitting next to him making comments on each number and his foot tapping against the carpet, Terrance couldn’t say it was a waste of time.

* * *

 

“Are you going to pick me up every time?” Kieran asked without trace of annoyance Monday after his dance program wrapped up. A flash of gold bracelet intruded upon Terrance’s line of vision. Dorian approached.

“Hello, Terry,” he beamed, resting a hand on Kieran’s shoulder. Kieran glanced up, but didn’t flinch away. “Here to applaud your son’s magnificent performance today, I assume.”

Dorian’s arm muscles were very prominent, tensing in the arm’s position as he released Kieran’s shoulder. Kieran looked down bashfully. “I got out of work too late to see it this time,” he said with a tired grin at the instructor.

“What a shame,” Dorian chided him. “Our Kieran here has made leaps and bounds of progress--oh, don’t sidle away, Kier; I know you eat everyone’s admiration right up.”

Terrance blinked. It was only natural that Dorian should use the same nickname for his son that he did. There wasn’t much playing to be done with the name ‘Kieran,’ after all. Still, it said good things about Dorian, for some reason. “Everyone’s been admiring him?”

“Ask him yourself,” Dorian said, inclining his head Kieran’s way. “Go on, tell him what Connor said. Don’t clam up in front of your father.”

Kieran wrenched his eyes away from his sneakers to look at Terrance’s chin. “Connor said I dance better than him,” he mumbled.

“He’s a very modest man, don’t you think? Connor was much more exuberant in his praise,” Dorian said with cheer. Terrance nodded.

“I’ll have to come by earlier next time. Traffic’s been bad.”

Dorian made a face. Kieran, looking bored, began checking his cell phone. “What with all the construction and protests recently, that doesn’t surprise me.”

“No protests today, thank the Maker,” Terrance sighed. “It was construction today, and like I said, I already got out of work late.”

“And what is it you do again, Terry? Now that you’re basking in retired-hockey-glory?” Dorian inspected his immaculate nails, trimmed short. The bracelet slid down his wrist with interesting slowness. Terrance cleared his throat to answer.

“I work in personal finance. Small office—Corin Finance in Hightown.”

Dorian nodded. “A long way away from my humble place in Lowtown.”

“You live in Lowtown, huh?” Terrance tried, but to his embarrassment, Dorian unfurled a slow smile and let his hand fall to his side.

“I meant the program building. The one we’re standing in. In Lowtown.”

“Right,” Terrance said, feeling his face turn red. “Of course.”

“For the record, I live in Hightown,” Dorian said, but he wasn’t looking at Terrance, rather beyond him, and he didn’t look happy.

“Bad roommates?” Terrance guessed. Dorian’s eyes snapped back to Terrance’s face.

“Something like that.”

He didn’t pry further. “Well, I hope it gets better for you.”

Dorian’s smile was tight when he said, “Me too.” His face relaxed into an easier expression all of a sudden. “Here I’ve chatted to you about traffic, work, and neighborhoods and I scarcely know anything interesting about you. I assure you, Terry, I’m usually not so much of a bore.”

That startled a chuckle out of Terrance. “I doubt anyone’s ever accused you of being a bore, Dorian,” he said, his eyes drawn to the bright purple workout tank with a silver foil graphic of a man doing a split. 

“You’re right,” Dorian agreed. “They haven’t. I was just being polite.”

“Well, on the note of politeness,” Terrance said, waving at Kieran, “I think we should go get some soup and subs.”

Kieran perked up from his cell phone. “Soup?” he said with a big smile.

“Figured we’d go to Mrs. Elegant’s for dinner,” Terrance suggested, rewarded by the smile growing to the point of threatening to split his son’s face in two. “Don’t feel like cooking.”

“Thanks for today, Mr. Pavus,” Kieran chirped, sliding over to stand next to Terrance. 

“Not inviting me?” Dorian teased him. “Saying goodbye already? You don’t think I’d like some soup?” Kieran furrowed his brow, but Dorian burst into laughter and flicked his hand towards the boy in a shooing gesture. “I’m giving you a hard time. Go on, go get some soup.”

“He’s really nice,” Kieran said once they’d left the building. 

“So you’ve said.”

“Didn’t you think he was nice, Dad?”

Through the window, he could see Dorian’s slim figure gesturing animatedly to another parent. He could see him throw back his head and laugh.

“Great guy,” Terrance said to the window. Kieran was a step ahead of him now, and he shook his head and increased his pace. “Yeah, a really great guy.”


	2. Resurfacing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian blinked once, long lashes flickering, his eyes focused on some corner of the room. “Hmm,” he said, and the slow way he drawled out the sound did warm and inconvenient things to Terrance’s nervous body. Over his shoulder, Dorian called to Kieran, “And what say you, young Lord Kier? Is this request truly from you, or is your terrible father using his son as an excuse to invite me to dinner?”

Kieran squinted at him from where he was washing dishes. One of the many awesome things about having his son live with him was, for all his many other lovely talents, his help around the house. Terrance was still adjusting in some small but meaningful ways—learning to write with his right hand had been tough enough—and he appreciated Kieran’s wordless support.

“What?” he asked, realizing the squinting had continued. He shut the plastic box on the leftover spaghetti and leaned against the counter. “I got sauce on my face?”

“Did you dye your hair?”

The question floored him. “No,” Terrance answered, flabbergasted. “I got it cut, not dyed.”

“Hm. It looks redder than usual.” Kieran shut off the water and hopped over to the plastic box, getting ready to put it in the fridge.

Terrance sidled out of his way. “Did it look grey before?” he joked.

“Yeah. Thanks for the food.”

“Thanks for clea—wait, Kier, are you serious?” The magnitude of what his son had said finally hit him. Grey hairs? He was barely thirty!

Kieran looked over his shoulder from where he stood in the kitchen entrance. “Hm, I guess it must’ve been the light yesterday,” he said after a moment of quiet observation. “It looks pretty red today.”

The insult to his pride stuck with Terrance the next few days. On the afternoons he was able to pick up Kieran from the after-school program, self-consciousness made him terse in front of Dorian, his back straight like Kieran’s had been known to be when he was ready to cry. He only relaxed once the program building was out of sight.

“Did Mr. Pavus make you mad?” Kieran asked after a week or so. The concept was so preposterous that Terrance laughed. The sound alone seemed to reassure Kieran. “Okay. Because he’s been helping me with school stuff, and I’d be really upset if you like, hated him or something.”

That gave Terrance pause. “You’re having some trouble?” he asked. Kieran nodded. “You can come to me about that sort of thing, you know.”

“Don’t get jealous,” Kieran said quietly. Terrance was about to let his emotions dictate his retort, but Kieran continued, “School wasn’t really your biggest concern when you were my age, you know? You were really focused on hockey. I get it.”

Terrance laughed, an awkward and weak thing as they got out of the car. “Kier, I do work a real job now. I have to know something or I wouldn’t be—” He stopped mid-sentence. His defensiveness was getting the way of the real matter at hand. “Anyway. I’m glad Mr. Pavus is helping you. Can I at least ask what the trouble is?” He fished his keys out of his pocket and avoided looking at his son while he unlocked the door.

“Are you mad?” 

“What? No, I’m not mad. I’m just wondering why you’re not telling me what the problem is. Is it a more serious problem than you’re leading me to believe?”

Kieran plunked his backpack over the back of the sofa to land on the cushion. “It’s just an elective,” he hedged. “It’s two electives.”

“Which are?”

“Family and Consumer Sciences,” Kieran rattled off, then took a deep breath. “And Ancient Tevene.”

“Okay,” Terrance grinned. “I’ll ignore the obvious question and ask you why you need help in cooking class.”

“It’s related,” Kieran defended himself. “It’s not just cooking. You have to write papers and propose a final recipe presentation. It’s sort of like Dancing with Astrariums except you only have the class period to prepare and explain the thing you made. I’m really nervous,” he confessed after a second to breathe. “I know I still have another month before the semester is up, but I want it to be good. And before you ask,” he said, louder and faster, “we’re learning food vocab in Ancient Tevene so I thought it would be cool to do an ancient recipe but I’m having trouble reading the recipes they have untranslated on the Imperium Archives. And I want to do it myself. So Mr. Pavus is helping me with the harder words.”

Terrance blinked at his son, standing with clenched fists and looking at the floor. He hadn’t expected to get a full paragraph of uncharacteristic chatter about cooking—no, about Dorian Pavus, for that matter. “Mr. Pavus reads ancient Tevene?” was all he could think to say. The most he knew about the language was what he’d seen in movies and the few plays he’d read in part-time high school. He certainly wouldn’t have associated it with cooking, of all things.

Kieran nodded. “Speaks it, too.”

“Kieran, this all sounds like a really awesome idea,” Terrance encouraged. Kieran turned around with a small mumble of thanks and began reaching for his backpack on the sofa. “No, really. I never would have thought of such a cool way to tie the two classes together.”

Kieran paused in his rummaging. “I’m nervous,” he said again. “Would it—could I—ugh,” he finished, but Terrance tried to catch on to his meaning.

“Want me to buy some ingredients so you can practice making it?” 

Kieran didn’t move. He hadn’t guessed right, apparently. “Could you,” he began slowly, “could you maybe...ask Mr. Pavus if he’d help me out? Help me practice cooking it?”

“Where? Here? Like our house?” When Kieran nodded, stupid little nervous bubbles zipped through Terrance’s gut. Maker, what was that all about? He didn’t usually get social anxiety about this sort of crap. But Kieran looked so quietly hopeful, at least in the side of his nose that Terrance could see, that the bubbles didn’t last long. “I’ll ask. But I can’t promise you he’ll be willing,” he cautioned. “He doesn’t know me all that well.”

“He knows me, though.”

“I’ll ask.”

* * *

 

The following week, Terrance arrived at the program, out of breath, and just in time for Dorian to lead the class in stretching. He’d never arrived so early before, never leaving the office before four o’clock most days, and so he’d never had the opportunity to see Dorian’s long brown arms reaching far to hold onto one shoed foot after another, or his equally long legs in tight navy leggings spread wide apart in a near-perfect sitting split. His fitted tank top was gold today, and as he leaned over, the corner lifted up just enough to expose a lean and noticeably muscled torso.

The kids, most of whom no longer looked around for companions to giggle with over Mr. Pavus’s flexibly changing positions, all jerked their heads up to stare for a moment when Terrance entered the studio, subtle as a garbage disposal. He felt their eyes on him all the more intensely once he realized he’d been standing at the door too long. He took his seat next to the Orlesian woman, mother of Kieran’s friend Connor, whose name he couldn’t bother to recall. Kieran called her “the Scourge of Redcliffe,” no doubt a moniker bestowed upon her by her son that Kieran had picked up, because Kieran had never been to Redcliffe except as a baby and couldn’t give clear answers regarding the nickname’s history except for “their family is from there, you know.”

Terrance occupied himself the rest of the class not by ogling the instructor, but by imagining reasons for the mother being deserving of a label like “the Scourge” of somewhere, including: being a homewrecker of many upstanding Fereldan families; upending one too many tables at PTA meetings; turning into a dragon and razing Redcliffe’s many farms and carrying off their sheep; working as the most ruthless prosecutor in town before being run out of the country by wrongfully imprisoned convicts’ families; or simply being too nagging a mother to the free-spirited Connor. This last idea had Terrance casting a furtive look Kieran’s direction. Did Kieran talk about him in such unflattering terms to his friends? Did _he_ have a nickname? The Uncomfortable Conversation-Starter? The Sports Buff of Kirkwall? The Inquisitor, like the guys back on the Dragons had called him for picking too many fights with the ref and asking too many accusatory and demanding questions of the players?

“You’re free, my excellent fledglings. Go fly home.”

Terrance startled from his gloom to see the flock of kids scatter in various directions. He searched for Kieran and found him packing his dance shoes in his bag by the wall with exaggerated slowness.

_Right_. Terrance stood and stretched, waiting for the other parents to collect their offspring and leave. They seemed to be taking a long time. He jutted out his elbows and twisted his back around several times. The Scourge of Redcliffe tapped her foot like a hummingbird’s heartbeat, calling Connor’s name with increasing irritation. Terrance yawned hard enough to make himself lightheaded. Connor, with dragging feet, met his mother, and as they left, Dorian called from across the room, “My, they must be working you _both_ long hours! I usually have some time to myself at this point.”

“Sorry, Mr. Pavus,” Kieran was startled into saying. He immediately clammed up, flicking his eyes to his father with desperate, frantic speed.

Terrance offered Dorian a long-suffering smile. “Don’t mean to keep you, Mr. Pavus, but I had a favor to ask you. Kieran tells me you’ve been helping him with some coursework.”

Kieran mouthed “Dad,” turning his head so Dorian couldn’t see. Panic—or maybe embarrassment—had his face pale and eyes wild.

“He’s a bright boy,” Dorian chirped, crossing his arms over his tank top. Terrance followed the movement for a split second longer than he could congratulate himself for. “Hardly needs _my_ help.”

“Apparently, he does.” Kieran had focused all his attention on futzing with his bag. Terrance was willing to bet his ears were red. “He’s a smart kid, but he’s smart enough to know when he needs to ask for help. I’m really interested in this history—or, I guess, cooking project you’ve both invested yourselves in, but as my son can tell you, my history and cooking skills amount to checking the expiration date on a box of pasta.”

Dorian’s bright laugh echoed off the studio walls, but his arms were still crossed. The evil, rude nervous bubbles made their second appearance in Terrance’s stomach. He steeled himself with what he hoped was his most disarming smile.

“I know you’re a busy guy, but it would mean a lot to both of us if you’d come over sometime and help him actually practice making the thing. Kieran’s probably ready to kill me by asking, but I think he’d be grateful for any help he can get, since he definitely can’t rely on my aid.”

Dorian blinked once, long lashes flickering, his eyes focused on some corner of the room. “Hmm,” he said, and the slow way he drawled out the sound did warm and inconvenient things to Terrance’s nervous body. Over his shoulder, Dorian called to Kieran, “And what say you, young Lord Kier? Is this request truly from you, or is your terrible father using his son as an excuse to invite me to dinner?”

“It’s not dinner. We decided on a cake, right?” Kieran said—thank the Maker, because Terrance, who had just lost all his nerve as well as control over his respiratory organs, was rendered speechless. 

“So we did.” Dorian had a little half-smile on his face when he turned back that made Terrance want to assure him of his good intentions, or to boast that he hadn’t stopped working out since retiring. Neither were appropriate. “Mr. Lavellan, I’ll give you my phone number, and you and Kieran can work out the date.” The last word sounded more enunciated in Terrance’s delirium. “Provided, of course, you keep it to yourself and don’t hand it out to every drunken and unwanted lover who pesters you for your own.”

Terrance boomed a surprised laugh, then, feeling awkward by how loud the echo was, slid his phone out of his blazer pocket. They traded numbers with minimal discomfort—at least on Terrance’s part—and wished each other a good evening.

Kieran, in the setting autumn sun, glowed on the walk to the car, sunbeams illuminating his pale skin. But his expression was serious when he thanked Terrance.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Terrance teased, starting the truck’s engine. “ _I’m_ not the one who has to present Mr. Pavus with a burnt cake.”

“I’m not gonna _burn_ it,” Kieran muttered, folding his arms and looking out the window. Terrance kept his smile under control. “Well,” Kieran said after a minute of stoic silence, “maybe only at first.”

* * *

 

The days passed, and still, Terrance did not text Dorian.

Kieran snapped at him when he asked how his homework was coming that Thursday night. In response, Terrance raised his voice and complained that he’d just been _asking_ , he didn’t need to burn Andraste all over again. Kieran had yelled how that was stupid Chantry propaganda that had nothing to do with his homework, and promptly stormed off with tears budding in his eyes. Terrance had not inquired further, and still did not text Dorian.

That weekend, Kieran got his first video call from Morrigan, who had apparently settled in wherever she was. It wasn’t Terrance’s business to ask, and their son did not volunteer the information, probably because it didn’t occur to him as important. He could hear Kieran chattering in muffled tones when Terrance passed by his closed bedroom door on the way to his room, trying not to feel down. He did not text Dorian that night.

As Kieran was getting ready for school on Monday, he was more talkative than usual. “Mother’s looking really happy,” he said, pulling on his hoodie. His voice emanated from within the folds of fabric as he continued, “The Crossroads Library is apparently full of interesting stuff. She told me that they gave her a reading room all to herself and’ll pull books whenever she wants, whatever she needs. They usually have it. I wish our library was like that. But still, I don’t think I’d even know what to ask for.” Black hair sprouted through the neck of the hoodie. Kieran’s face soon popped out. Terrance handed him a granola bar in silence, frustrated both with his own inability to contribute to the conversation and the fact that he couldn’t toss it from the kitchen like he used to be able to do. “I told her about the Family and Consumer Sciences project, though, and she was really interested. Said she might be able to get access to some scans of ancient Tevene texts, if I needed them. Wouldn’t that be cool? Hey, Dad,” Kieran called, slinging his backpack over his shoulder, “when did Mr. Pavus say he was free this week? Tonight?”

“I haven’t texted him yet,” Terrance said, faltering in his excuses when Kieran cast a black look his direction.

“Come _on_. I told you I was nervous. I asked you to—”

“Tone, Kieran,” Terrance warned, and Kieran looked at his feet. “I’ve been really busy, okay? Look, I’ll text him now.” He pulled his phone out of his briefcase with exaggerated movement and dashed off a text. 

**Kieran’s annoyed I haven’t asked you if you’re still game to help him cook sometime this week? Thanks. -T**

“There,” he told Kieran. “He’s been informed. I’ll let you know what he says.”

“Kay,” Kieran said, looking slightly less irritated. “I’ll see you later, Dad.”

“Yep. Have a good day.”

As soon as Kieran was out the door, Terrance’s phone buzzed.

**Np. How is your Wed. night looking?**

And so it was settled. A couple of equally brief texts later, and Wednesday night would be the night. Kieran had nothing to complain about.

* * *

 

Upon returning home from work on Wednesday, Terrance immediately stripped off his business suit and threw himself into the shower. Kieran would be home from dance soon, and they still had to go grocery shopping for his ingredients. 

Scrubbing away the office smell, Terrance heard the front door jangle open. “I’m in the shower,” he called, and heard Kieran call something back, but the particulars were lost in the roar of shower water. “I’ll be out in a sec!”

He finished shampooing and rinsing, turned off the shower, and threw a towel around his waist before stepping out of the bathroom. “Kier, I’ll be ready in two minutes,” Terrance said once in the hallway. 

“Okay,” Kieran said, poking his head around the corner. “Oh,” he said, seeing his dad in the towel, “Dad, Mr—“

A second pair of footsteps followed, and another head poked around the hallway. A Dorian-shaped head. Before Terrance had a chance to react and jump back in the bathroom for the next thousand years, Dorian’s lips parted in surprise, his eyes darting down to the towel, up to Terrance’s chest, and then away to a photo of baby Kieran hanging on the wall. “Oh, Andraste’s sweet— _fasta vass_ , Terrance, put some clothes on.”

“I was about to.” Terrance emitted an uncharacteristic squeak before ducking into his bedroom with a death grip on the towel.

He emerged, perhaps a few minutes longer than was reasonable, in a white button-down and jeans and stable breathing. Kieran and Dorian were back in the family room, thank the Maker; his son was talking animatedly and with his hands. They both hushed up when Terrance plodded into view, but Kieran offered him an uncharacteristic, beaming smile. Dorian glanced at a spot on his button-down one button below the open collar, and Terrance didn’t miss the way he swallowed. He had changed out of his dance clothes, like Kieran had, and was now wearing a slim button-down of his own, although his was turquoise and buttoned all the way to the top.

“Are you ready to go?”

Kieran’s chirping voice brought Terrance out of his momentary stupor. He wrenched his eyes away from the mutual button-down admiration session and nodded.

“The real question is if you’re ready, Kier,” he teased, grabbing his wallet and house keys from the top of the TV, where he’d dropped them in his hurry to shower. “Last chance to bail.”

“Damn straight I’m ready!” Terrance heard a high-five behind him and bit back his no-cursing scolding.

* * *

 

The walk to the grocery store proved how beautiful Kirkwall could be in the autumn. Sunset came earlier this time of year, and its light glinted off the skyscrapers in the near distance, gold and chrome. The sea air blew in maybe a little too chilly, but Terrance was wearing his old training jacket, which had kept him warm while sitting in the rink. 

Or the penalty box.

Kieran kept pulling out the shopping list and recipe on his phone and mouthing the Tevene words carefully, so he wasn’t much of a conversationalist. When Terrance had asked if he was okay, he still nodded, but the enthusiasm was clearly beginning to give way to nerves. This left him trailing behind Terrance and Dorian, who were now forced to have a conversation.

“Thanks for coming along tonight, Dorian,” Terrance said, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. Dorian’s eyes followed the movement.

“It’s really my pleasure,” Dorian insisted. “Was that your old…team?” A thin silver band around his index finger flashed as he pointed. Terrance twisted around, as if he’d be able to see the team logo, or as if he’d forgotten where he’d been.

“Yeah. Started out with the Dalish,” Terrance replied. He hadn’t thought to grab the Kirkwall Dragons jacket. It wasn’t worn in as nicely as the Dalish one, and he kind of liked how the dark green looked against his skin compared to the red Dragons one, which clashed with his hair. “Got traded pretty quickly. I was pretty much fresh out of high school when I was recruited, though.”

“Ah. I haven’t heard of the Dalish as much as the Dragons, although I suppose that is to be expected. We are in Kirkwall.”

“Got more hockey fans here, although…”

Dorian waited, but Terrance was deep in thought. The art scene in Kirkwall was quite a bit more  prevalent compared to its sports scene. Their fans were known Thedas-wide for their loyalty, to the point of fanaticism, but it had never the same draw as a ballet performance. Maker forbid something like the Ballet Magisterium _Swan Lake_ fiasco happen during the same weekend as the Marchers’ Cup, like it had last year. 

“Although?”

Terrance shook his head. “I was just thinking that sports haven’t been as popular here in Kirkwall since I got traded.”

“Dad,” Kieran piped up, shuffling in between the two men. Terrance and Dorian both looked at him. “Do you think it’s okay if we put wine in the cake? This word means wine.” He pointed to some incomprehensible series of characters on his phone screen. Terrance glanced at Dorian.

“I think alcohol cooks down when you cook it,” he guessed, and Dorian offered him the tiniest, subtlest nod. He continued with relief, “No one in your class is going to get drunk off your cake. You can even put that science fact in your presentation.”

Kieran nodded, considering it with that sort of somberness that was a little unnatural on a twelve-year-old. Terrance steered them all through the grocery automatic doors, and his son immediately beelined for the baking section.

“Terry,” Dorian said, half-starting after Kieran, “what’s on that list that you already have at home? I forgot to ask Lord Kier.”

Terrance grinned, both at the question and the nickname. “Probably none of it. Maybe milk.”

Dorian stopped in his tracks. “Flour? No flour?”

“Nope.”

Dorian shook his head, rebooting and heading after Kieran, who was studiously perusing the spice shelves. “We’re going to need to have a little chat after this cake business, Terry,” he promised, a teasing warning note in his tone. At least, Terrance hoped it was teasing. 

“I look forward to it,” he said with a smirk, tugging down the zipper of his training jacket in the suffocating heat of the grocery store. He didn’t miss the way Dorian’s cheeks darkened a tad, nor the clearing of his throat as he departed.

Terrance wondered, later, as Dorian helped Kieran pick out the right cooking sherry, if it was possible he still had that sort of effect on people, if despite getting older and less recognizable, people still found him attractive. Dorian couldn’t’ve been more than a few years younger than him, and it was obvious he knew how devastatingly handsome he was. _Terrance_ knew how devastatingly handsome he was. Morrigan and he had fallen in love with each other’s youthful good looks and mutual fascination with wild pastimes. Those things had all waned with time—the strange pastimes, the love, and the youth. He’d been the one to end the marriage, but she would’ve done it if he’d waited. The attraction was gone, and Terrance had cheerfully resigned himself to bachelordom and (as Kieran had so helpfully pointed out) a couple stray gray hairs. Not exactly the sort of beau to attract young and fashionable dancers. Not anymore.

But the way Dorian _looked_ at him sometimes…

Dorian insisted on splitting the cost of the groceries, which made very little sense, given that he was the one doing the Lavellan-Wilde family a favor. But the total was small, and so Terrance didn’t mind agreeing once he saw his protests were falling on a deaf ear.

Kieran, who’d regained his excitement, babbled to Dorian all the way back home, effectively monopolizing the man’s time during the walk. Terrance didn’t mind. It gave him time to reflect, to admire the way Dorian’s slim-cut pants clung to his legs, to quirk a brow but look away as if admiring the cityscape when Dorian caught him once, to appreciate the small grin curling the side of Dorian’s mouth.

He left the two of them alone to bake their cake once they got home, watching _Dancing with Astrariums_ in the family room with a plate of leftover spaghetti. Terrance could hear them chatting to each other in the kitchen half in Fereldan and half in tentative Tevene, mixing bowls clanging and oven beeping and delightful smells wafting.

Dorian came out only once, surprising him when he rested a gentle hand on Terrance’s shoulder. Terrance jumped a little, almost jostling his spaghetti—Kieran had gotten him hooked on the show recently, and there was a particularly good routine going on—and Dorian, bless him, only smirked rather than laughed. “Terry, I don’t suppose you and your uncultured self possess a pastry brush?”

“A—a what?” Terrance couldn’t imagine why anyone would need to buff or brush a pastry. Maybe to get the crumbs off?

“That’s what I thought,” Dorian chuckled, a deep sound in his chest. He relinquished Terrance’s shoulder and headed back to the kitchen. Terrance shoveled spaghetti in his mouth and tried to focus back on the competition.

They brought the cake out after an hour or so, generously offering him a slice (delicious). Kieran was all aglow, Dorian himself looked mighty pleased with his work, and Terrance was full of good food. 

“I think it’s time I head home,” Dorian said once the cake had been successfully half-demolished. Terrance rose from the table and headed for the TV, where he’d dropped his keys. Again.

“Let’s roll out. What’s your address?”

Dorian’s mouth formed a little O of surprise. “Oh, Terry. That’s—that’s kind. I called a cab already, I didn’t want to impose—“

Terrance shrugged, trying to ignore the disappointment plummeting in his stomach. “No worries. Next time, yeah?”

“Next time,” Dorian promised, standing up, too. He winked, and for a moment, Terrance’s heart faltered. “I still owe you a tongue-lashing for the absolutely despicable state of your kitchen pantry.”

Okay, heart definitely not restarting any time soon. “I’m sure,” he managed. 

“Bye, Mr. Pavus,” Kieran said, joining the two of them in standing. He held out his hand regally, and Dorian shook it very seriously.

“Good night, Lord Kier.” He turned to Terrance. “Good night, Mr. Lavellan.” He extended his hand, and Terrance took it. It was warm in his own, except for the silver band, smooth and cool.

“Good night, Mr. Pavus.”

Dorian withdrew his hand after the handshake, which had lasted a fraction of a second too long. The cab beeped outside. Terrance handed him his jacket, which felt expensive in that high-quality leather kind of way.

“Good night,” Dorian said again.

“Good night!” Kieran and Terrance called together. The door shut, and without warning, Kieran grabbed his father in a tight hug.

It only took a split second for Terrance to wrap his arms around Kieran and squeeze gently.  He held his grateful, short son for the longest time he could remember in his life. Kieran, of course, was the first to extricate himself, but he was smiling.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Anytime, Kier.”


End file.
